“Does she not know the story?” Vera asked, pinpointing her son.
Byron lifted his beer. “I try to avoid the story of my conception around women I’m dating,” he said, and drank.
“You have to hear it,” Priscilla told Roxie. “Dad and Ma met at college. She was this sweet, innocent freshman and he was this long-haired hippie.”
“Wait a minute,” Constantine said, cutting in quickly. “That sweet, innocent freshman was wearing a Van Halen T-shirt.”
“And the long-haired hippie was completely nude,” Byron added.
“Nude?” Roxie asked, shocked.
“Well, he was wearing a sandwich board,” Vera said, unable to contain a reminiscent grin. “And sneakers. He was the center of a one-man peace rally. The board had Peace on Earth painted on it in big letters. He was handing out flowers to passersby, reciting British and Epicurean poetry in lyrical fashion.”
“I get the sandwich board,” Roxie mused. “But the sneakers?”
Constantine winced. “I couldn’t outrun campus police in bare feet.”
“It was my first day on campus,” Vera remembered. “I went wandering, trying to get my bearings, and there he was. I’d never seen anything like him. He was tall, dark, handsome...”
“She’d never seen a naked man who wasn’t nailed to a crucifix,” Priscilla explained.
Vera nodded. “There was that. He had dark unruly hair, just like Jesus’s. Though he had something Jesus definitely did not—his own brand of raw sexual magnetism.” Groans sounded from her children but Vera ignored them, carrying on. “He handed me a red rose and asked me if I’d like to join him in song. I told him it was my first day. He said he was a second-year senior, which was his segue into telling me his name, Constantine Strong, and that if ever I needed help of any kind he was willing to drop everything, sandwich board and all, and come running. He wound up writing his number on my palm while holding the flower between his teeth.”
“Smooth,” Grim commended.
Constantine’s smile was downright jaunty. “Thank you, sir.”
“I couldn’t look away from him,” Vera recalled. “I knew I was staring and that I shouldn’t, but it was like Psyche gazing upon Cupid for the first time.”
“Really, Ma?” Byron intervened. “Pop looked like Jesus and Cupid?”
“Were you there?” Vera asked him pointedly.
“I wasn’t far behind,” Byron retorted.
“Please don’t stop.” Roxie egged Vera on, thoroughly entertained.
“He smiled at me one last time, put the flower in my hand again and kissed my wrist. I suppose I knew then.”
Priscilla cupped her chin in her hand. “My father, ladies and gentlemen. Corrupting good little Catholic girls since 1981.”
Roxie shook her head. “I still don’t get what that has to do with poetry, though.”
“Because of the poem,” Priscilla informed her. “He recited Lord Byron to her after kissing her wrist.”
“Byron,” Roxie said in surprise.
“Yes,” Vera confirmed, dipping her head in a nod to her son.
Constantine reached for his wife, tugging on her sleeve. “She had me from the first.”
As the others commemorated the retelling, Roxie sat next to Byron’s tense form. The parallels were there. His first meeting with Dani had happened around the first day of college. It had clearly been that elusive, fairy-tale love at first sight followed by a lifetime of devotion, however brief.
“Roxie’s present is next,” Vera announced, handing it across the tabletop to Priscilla and Grim.
“You shouldn’t have,” Priscilla said as she tugged at the bow. “This wrapping’s better than Grandmother Delacroix’s.”
“Let’s not mention that old biddy’s name at my table,” Constantine warned, earning an elbow in the ribs from his wife.
“Wow,” Priscilla exclaimed. From the gift box, she withdrew an Irish lace gown. It was hand-stitched and befitted a baptism or christening. “Roxie! This is unbelievable!”
“I heard you and Grim talking at the hospital about taking Evangeline to the Gulf once the weather warms for an unofficial baptism,” Roxie said. “I didn’t know if she had anything to wear. This is probably a bit more formal than you’d like for her—”
“You can’t have it back,” Priscilla told her. She held it to her, smoothing the fabric. Then she nearly knocked Roxie off her seat by rising from her side of the bench with a hand from her husband and limping on her medical walking boot around the table so that she could give Roxie a hug. “Thank you,” she said, squeezing her. “Thank you so much.”
“You’re welcome,” Roxie replied. Tears pinched the back of her eyes. She loved these people. She loved everything about them, from their quirky individualism to their open affectionate ways, the support they offered in unconstrained, unconditional quantities. She loved—
“There’s another box here,” Grim pointed out. “Roxie, this is your wrapping.”
“Oh,” she said, straightening from Priscilla’s embrace. “I forgot. That one’s actually for Byron.”
Catcalls went up among the group. Byron waved them off. “All right, all right,” he said good-naturedly as he took the small present from Grim. “You sure you want me to open this in front of the rabble?”
“It’s not embarrassing, I promise,” she said.
He unwrapped the bow and loosened the lid. He peered inside and blinked at the contents.
“What is it?” Vera asked, intrigued by her son’s reaction.
Byron slowly unraveled the item from the box. It was a scarf. The pattern was Greek key, black and blue. As he held it between his hands, Roxie explained to his family, “Because of me, he lost his scarf on Valentine’s Day and I promised to replace it. I’m sorry it took me so long to make,” she added to Byron. “I blame all the sewing for Georgiana’s wedding.”
“It’s nice,” he said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied. His eyes had lifted to her and they were holding. She refused to look away first. Again, she saw the flash, the tenderness behind it. Her heart rolled and fluttered until she felt breathy and mystified.
“Well,” Vera said, watching them just as the others were. “Good story time, kids. Now, Izzy.” She turned to Mrs. Grimsby. “Tell us how you met Tobias’s father.”
Affirmative chants went up among Priscilla and Constantine as Grim protested, “No, no, no!” and Mrs. Grimsby’s great laugh abounded. All the while, Byron looked at Roxie and she looked at him, wanting to touch him, wanting him to touch her in a way that wasn’t polite or withdrawn.
As everyone helped clear off the table, Grim offered Roxie a turn with Evangeline. Roxie walked her farther into the garden and settled on a bench swing with a faded cushion and creaky chains. She wrapped the baby girl snugly inside the blanket Mrs. Grimsby had made for her and rocked her. She hummed a tune. “Tennessee Waltz,” she realized after a few bars. She smiled over the young face as the shadows merged and the sun broke like a golden egg over Mobile’s horizon, its bedazzling contents leaking across the rippled bay.
It wasn’t until Priscilla came out to the garden to collect Evangeline for her next feeding that Roxie saw Byron watching from the deck rail. She gripped the edge of the swing, letting it come to a standstill, and Priscilla took Evangeline into the house. How long had he been standing there?
She couldn’t read him anymore. With her, he’d always been so clear about what was right and what he wanted. But lately he’d closed off and left her knocking on the foxhole door. She couldn’t stand it another moment.
Bracing herself, she walked to him. “I’d like to speak with you now.”
“We should go in,” he said by way of an answer.
“What do you want, Byron?” When his lips parted
at the question, she lifted her shoulders. “It’s a simple question, one you seemed to know the answer to when you came to the boutique that day. You said you wanted me, remember? And you meant it. I know you meant it. So what’s changed?”
“Who says anything’s changed?”
“You have,” she said, planting her feet. She wasn’t backing down. There was too much on her chest and she had to relieve it. “You’ve said it plenty over the last week, whether it was by avoiding my gaze or turning away from me. Not talking.”
“My family’s here, Roxie. They’re inside. Let’s not do this.”
“You’ve avoided it at home. You haven’t slept with me in three nights.”
“When did we determine we had to sleep in the same bed?”
“Never,” she said. “But before this week, you were there every night with me. And, sure, you turned away from me plenty then, too, once we’d exhausted each other. But I didn’t feel completely shut out.”
“I haven’t shut you out.”
“And now you’re lying,” she said, stricken. “You’re lying to me. Richard may have taken off my sister’s clothes and climbed between her legs. But he never once lied to me.”
Byron scrubbed the back of his neck, releasing a sigh. “What do you want to hear?”
“Tell me you don’t want me.” Her voice rose on the charge. She couldn’t help it. She’d held it in too long. She’d held it in with Richard, Cassandra, her mother and her father. She’d wanted desperately for Byron to be different.
And, damn it, he’d seduced her on the sofa in her mother’s off-limits sitting room. So she sure as hell could yell at him on his parents’ deck for breaking her heart. “I’ll apologize to Vera and Priscilla,” she said. “I can’t go another day with them treating me like one of the family if you’ve stopped having feelings for me. Have you, Byron? It stopped for Richard and he never told me.”
She saw his teeth as his lips peeled from them. “I can’t believe you’re comparing me to him.”
“He shut me out, just as you’re doing. He strung me along, whether he had good intentions or not. He didn’t open up to me about his demons either. That was why he and I failed.”
“He cheated on you.”
“He severed communication,” Roxie said. “So much so that he was compelled to turn to her for answers.”
“That’s different,” Byron said. “I’d never betray you like he did. I’d never be unfaithful. And besides, we’re not married, Roxie. We don’t even love each other.”
The statement, so finite, set her back a step. She felt much as she thought he might have when she’d struck him with a closed fist a year ago. Her mouth opened, closed. Pressing her lips together, she worked it all back underneath the surface. The shock, the hurt. She pushed it all into its black box and sealed it and herself closed, just as he had. “You’re right,” she said with a tight nod. “You’re absolutely right.”
Byron looked at her with dawning apprehension. She looked away because she didn’t want to see the tsunami in his eyes. “Don’t do that, Roxie,” he said, quiet. “Don’t love me.”
She swallowed again, fighting for composure, fighting for dignity and strength. “You’re the only one who said anything about love.”
“You can’t love me,” he pointed out. “I told you I’d screw things up. I told you I couldn’t make relationships work...”
When he trailed off, she added, “You told me you didn’t believe in taking risks unless it was extraordinary? You told me that you’re a one-and-only kind of guy? Yes, you did,” she realized. She blinked quickly to erase the mist gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Excuse me.”
Before she could bypass him, he asked her, “Why are you here, duchess? Still? Why do you stick around when people hurt you?”
The question struck her off guard. “I guess...” She sighed, tremulous. “I guess it’s just waiting... Waiting for someone to care deeply enough that they’re willing to wade through their emotional bog, their own personal shit, to share themselves enough, to fight for me. Fight for us.” She felt as if she’d been leached of blood. “No more,” she promised.
He watched her go to the door. “Where’re you going?”
“You’ve been pushing me away for days, Byron,” she reminded him. She pulled the sliding door open. “This is me taking the hint.” She gave a half laugh. “You’d think after thirty years of being pushed away by Leverett Honeycutt, four sisters and a cheating husband, I’d know. I’d have learned by now. I guess I should thank you. You’ve finally made it sink in.”
She veered into the kitchen, then stopped when she found Constantine, Vera and Grim at the sink. The men were pretending not to listen. Vera looked as stricken as Roxie felt.
Quickly, Roxie grabbed her purse off the nook table. She wrestled her coat on and braced herself once more as she faced Byron’s mother. “Thank you,” Roxie said, working the brittle crack out of her voice. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
“You’re welcome anytime,” Vera replied, sincere.
Roxie felt too choked up to reply. She all but raced for the door, unable to bring herself to say goodbye to the rest.
At her car, she threw her bag into the backseat. As she slammed the door closed, she heard running behind her. “Wait a minute,” Byron called when she opened the driver’s door.
She thought about ignoring him. She thought about driving away, perhaps even running over his toes. Whirling on him, she shouted, “What if I did love you?” It brought him to a halt. “So what? So what, Byron? Loving someone, being loved—it’s not the end of the world!”
His jaw hung loose. It took a few seconds for him to close it. Bracing his hands on his hips, he frowned in answer. Yes, it is, he answered silently.
His gaze was so blue and so sad, she had trouble inhaling. “It doesn’t have to be,” she told him. She lifted her hands. “If this was a magical, extraordinary, once-in-a-lifetime connection, you wouldn’t give a thought to the risk. But it isn’t. I just wish you hadn’t made me believe that you were in. All of you in.”
Frustrated with the emotions spilling freely down her cheeks, she swiped the back of her hand under her eyes. “I won’t wait around for things to change. I’m sick of waiting. I’m sick of being hurt. And, for once, I don’t want to fight.” He’d taken the fight out of her.
That might’ve been scarier than loving someone she knew she shouldn’t have loved so soon after she’d loved another who hadn’t cared enough about her.
She opened the driver’s door to get into the car, but he grabbed on. He held her by the elbow, his grip tight as he struggled with what to say. “I do care,” he said at last, the words gravelly.
She weighed the conflict on his face, the turmoil over watching her go. All of which he could have prevented. “Just not enough?”
“You asked me what I wanted back there,” he interjected. “You asked me.”
She paused, searching him. “And?”
Some of the softness blazed behind his hard features and he shook his head. “I should’ve done it the right way. I should’ve cut you loose when I realized I was going to screw it up. But I couldn’t give you up. Not completely. I couldn’t let you go.” He cursed. “I don’t want you to go now.”
“Oh, God.” She covered her mouth. “Why? Why do you have to make this so hard?”
Why did I have to love you?
He moved in. She shook her head, but his arm circled her, tugging her toward him. “Please,” he said when she planted her feet once more. “Please let me hold you.”
She breathed unsteadily. Her knees nearly buckled. “Tell me what hurts. Just tell me. Tell me why you’ve closed off.” Balling her hands in his shirt, she stopped herself from diving into him without any of what she needed. “Tell me the risk with me is worth letting it all go.”
>
“I...” The battle in him bled through the exterior. He looked at her through eyes that both wanted and resisted. His arm tightened around her waist. “I don’t...” He exhaled raggedly. “I don’t know how. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She ground her teeth to keep the emotions locked back where they belonged. His chest rose and fell under her fists. She wanted nothing more than to rest her head there. Her temples pounded and the ache in her had gone brambled and edged. It was like having a porcupine lodged there. “Okay,” she whispered. She’d asked too much of him. “It’s okay.” Giving in, she laid her brow against his sternum.
For some time, they stood in just that way, neither completely together nor completely apart. She recalled how Richard had held her in the end. How despite the comfort of the familiar she’d felt little. It had made closing that chapter of her life with him in it easier, knowing there were no crumbs left behind.
There weren’t just crumbs between her and Byron. There were great, splintered fragments of an emotional Pangaea. The pain spilled into the gulfs between, oceans far too wide for crossing.
She pulled away. Pushing her hair back from her shoulders, she felt the struggle vibrating off him in miserable strains. No, none of this was easy. “You’ll tell your family I said goodbye?”
He pressed his lips together and looked beyond her. A muscle along his jaw rapidly ticked away the seconds.
“I’ll give it a day or two,” she decided, “before I call Vera. By Monday, you’ll have your house back.”
His gaze seized on her again, his brows coming together. As she opened the driver’s door wider and lowered to the seat, he stepped forward. “Roxie...” he protested.
Wooing the Wedding Planner Page 23
